Tate’s forehead hit the metal. Knox fucked him like he was trying to leave something behind that the off-season could not wash off. Deep. Hard. The slap of it echoed. Tate pushed back to meet every thrust. Knox reached around and stroked him in time, rough, perfect, his other hand covering Tate’s mouth when the sounds got too loud.

Then Knox pulled out.

Tate turned, wrecked, confused, and Knox sat down on the bench and looked at him.

“Come here.”

Tate went.

Knox lay back on the narrow wood. For a second Tate did not understand. Then he did. Knox’s eyes were on him, hard and wide open, and he...